


Monsters (The Pot and Kettle Remix)

by forgetme



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Gen, Remix, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 20:17:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4235199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forgetme/pseuds/forgetme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>
  <strong>Prompt:</strong>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>No safe story. The link goes to my tumblr-only fic, but the majority of my stuff is on AO3.</p><p>Dragon Age and ASOIAF are my major fandoms. I've also written a story or two in various other fandoms, including Penny Dreadful, Saga, Rivers of London, Peaky Blinders, Mass Effect.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Monsters (The Pot and Kettle Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [originally](https://archiveofourown.org/users/originally/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Monster](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/124104) by originally. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> No safe story. The link goes to my tumblr-only fic, but the majority of my stuff is on AO3.
> 
> Dragon Age and ASOIAF are my major fandoms. I've also written a story or two in various other fandoms, including Penny Dreadful, Saga, Rivers of London, Peaky Blinders, Mass Effect.

The first time it happens – or rather the first time Blackwall is there to see it happen – they’re in Crestwood fighting off a horde of red templars. He feels the magic swirling around Dorian; they’re almost side by side, too close for comfort, and it raises the hairs on the back of Blackwall’s neck, like cool fire licking his skin.

He shudders, the tremor running through his arm, into his shield, and he curses under his breath when he sees one of the red templars rise from where he struck it down seconds ago. It’s a monster, a terrible, twisted shell of a man and the one who controls it—

Dorian. Dorian, who swings his staff in a wide arc, almost close enough to graze Blackwall’s side. Blackwall glances at him and sees the corner of Dorian’s mouth quirk in the faintest of smirks. He’s enjoying this; he’s proud of what he’s doing, of the horrible _thing_ lurching forward to fight by their side. The sight makes Blackwall nauseous to the point where his knees threaten to buckle under the weight of his armour.

_Blood mage. Monster._

He allows the words to slip out between clenched teeth as he raises his sword to hold off the other wretched creatures swarming them. It’s a relief to say it, to finally let it out, all that pent-up anger born from fear, but instantly he feels a sick lump of guilt settle in his stomach.

 _His palm burns where the edges of the rock cut into his flesh. He’s clutching it too tightly in his fist, whispering “Abomination” when the other boys around him are shouting it, almost singing it,_ Abomination, Blood Mage, Abomination, _laughing at the red-headed boy crouching in the dirt._ _His heart tells him that it’s wrong, but the words don’t make it past his lips. Later, he drops the rock into the river and carries home the memory of the sound it made hitting the water._

* * *

“You must be feeling quite at home here,” Blackwall says apropos of nothing once they’re more or less safe in their small, uncomfortable tent. It’s the first time he has to share with Dorian, which is probably why, while they were setting up, the Lady Inquisitor kept shooting him warning glances.

“No fighting,” she said before slipping into her own tent after the Iron Bull, but here he is now, sitting on his bedroll in the semi darkness, the rain pelting the thin canvas roof over his head, and what is he doing? Picking a fight.

“Oh, you mean because of the undead? _Naturally,_ I love them; I was just thinking about inviting them in for a cup of tea and a nice chat.” Dorian plops down on his bedroll and pulls a face when there’s a squelch from the wet, marshy ground. “They’d certainly make for better company than you. Or at least less malodorous company,” he adds, but the heat is gone from his voice. They’re both exhausted.

Blackwall shakes his head, wiping at his brow. Ever since Crestwood he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it. Slicing into the weak, rotten flesh of those living corpses and smelling the sweet stench of death all day has put him on edge. Even now he thinks he can hear their forlorn groans, the sound of their feet shuffling closer.

Dorian is on his back on his bedroll, eyes closed and, if he isn’t asleep already, he is certainly about to be. Paler than usual and still a little damp from the endless rain, Dorian still manages to look almost peaceful.

It’s infuriating.

“What you do to – _them_. It’s wrong. It’s perverted.”

That gets Dorian’s attention; he rolls over onto his side and stares at Blackwall, murder in his eyes. “What I do is perverted? You know, you’re not the first person to tell me that. I see, so I’m a pervert and you, I assume, are a shining beacon of everything good and pure, _Warden_ Blackwall, hero of the Blight. What were you doing during the Blight anyway? Rescuing kittens from Darkspawn? Hitting all the bad things with your big, shiny, pointy sword?”

“As a matter of fact the Wardens _were_ fighting Darkspawn, yes. And what were you doing, Dorian? Laying on your bed, letting your slaves massage your feet and peel you grapes?”

“Yes, I am a _monster_ after all,” Dorian says and it might just be the exhaustion, but Blackwall thinks he can hear actual hurt in his voice. “As you so rightly pointed out the other day.” Dorian takes a deep breath and looks Blackwall in the eye. “Oh well, we can’t all be as honorable as you Grey Wardens, recruited only from the best jails and finest gallows in all of Thedas.”

For a second Blackwall sees red, fury mixing with panic, hatred and fear blurring Dorian’s smug face, the drab canvas walls; even the sound of the pouring rain fades into a distant whisper, muted by the blood roaring in his ears.

_He knows. He knows. He knows._

Blackwall is up before he can think twice about it, not sure what he’s going to do, and then there’s a flash and he’s down on his back, blinking in befuddlement at the low ceiling of the tent. And Dorian, who is standing over him, hands crackling with lightning. To his credit, Dorian looks as shocked as Blackwall feels.

“Kaffas,” he hisses, “I haven’t killed you, have I?”

“What, you mean you don’t even know?” Carefully, Blackwall brings up a hand and rubs his chest. It hurts, but the pain is already fading; it seems like his gambeson took most of the damage. There’s a vaguely unpleasant smell in the air like singed hair.

“It can be rather difficult to measure the output of one’s magical energy when a hairy, bearlike creature is lunging for one’s throat.” Dorian sniffs and keeps eyeing Blackwall with contempt and no small amount of distrust as he slowly sits up.

For all the anger he felt before – and to be honest, most of it wasn’t even anger but rotten, stinking fear – all that fills him now is shame.

“I’m sorry, Dorian, I should never have—“

“Tried to murder me in my sleep? No, you really shouldn’t have.”

“You were very much awake,” Blackwall points out and, realizing that may not have been the right point to argue, hastens to add, “and I wasn’t trying to murder you.”

“Oh? What _were_ you trying to do then?” Dorian studies him with narrowed eyes for a few seconds, while Blackwall desperately tries to come up with something to say.

Finally, Dorian huffs and shakes his head. “Never mind. I’m going to sleep. Whatever you did attempt, don’t do it again. I should hate to have to explain your untimely death to the Inquisitor in the morning. It would be awkward and unpleasant.”

“I won’t. I swear.”

“Good,” Dorian says as he stretches out on his bedroll again, “since I probably wouldn’t be able to make it look like an accident. Who knows, I might have to use my obscene magic to make it look like you’re still alive. With you I’m sure no one would question the odor.”

“Very funny, Dorian.”

They’re quiet after that for a bit, both of them trying to get comfortable on the too soft ground, listening to the sound of the rain.

* * *

It feels right to stand on the gallows and accept his fate. This is what he deserves and now, finally, he is exactly where he belongs.

In his jail cell, he rests his head against the ice cold wall and closes his eyes.

Death will be a relief.

It’s strange, but when he thinks that, he thinks about Dorian and the way he walks with his head held high and plucks the restless souls from the fade, binding them to him with a proud smirk.

He wonders if he will be one of those spirits soon, if his soul will wander aimlessly until Dorian pulls him back with a grand gesture and puts him to work.

The funny thing is; he wouldn’t mind.

He wants to help.

He wants to be good.

* * *

They drag him through the courtyard, heavy chains pulling him down, as if the abyss has already opened under his feet, and he hangs his head in shame when they call him by his true names. _Traitor. Coward. Murderer._ All of them more fitting than the one he stole.

When he raises his head and sees Dorian, sees Dorian’s cold smile, the white of his teeth like the gleam of a blade, he glares back, feeling that old pulse of defiance.

How they laughed at him in the beginning, a dirty commoner thinking he could be someone in Orlais, thinking he could make a name for himself.

Oh, he’s made a name for himself alright.

_Monster._

He holds Dorian's gaze as they drag him past, turning his head to keep him in his field of vision for as long as possible, not saying a word.


End file.
